Of Beasts and Leprechauns
by Censorship is a Cancer
Summary: Formerly "People in Hell Want Slurpies". Re-vamped, re-written and revived. Summary broken. Click link above. AU Walking Dead. All seasons re-written.
1. PART I - Chapter One

**PART I**

_CHAPTER ONE_

_The eidetic mind remembered how it all unfolded. It remembered, at first, the strength the lone body possessed when crouching in patient, stealthy wait behind the cover of the large oak trunk. Roots had coiled thickly through the dirt beneath the lithe figure's feet. Keen sapphire hues drank in each opportunity, weighing the pros and cons of each outcome. With a bow and arrow at the ready, back-up weapons in check as well as a considerable amount of stolen food weighing the lithe frame down hard, Lenora Molly Brannigan couldn't imagine just how much free-running would play an advantage in against a herd this large. It seemed femininity was overwhelmed at the prospect of a total loss._

_Brannigan had counted fifteen - maybe almost twenty in total. Drooling, jaws snapping with rotting limbs reaching aimlessly to grab at anything with two feet and a heartbeat. Due to all the excess baggage, the girl doubted she would be able to get much further. So came time to cut her losses. She remembered the way the weight felt in her hand. Almost twenty pounds worth of supplies. At this point, it would only slow one down and there was always the opportunity of returning for it later, once the small herd had dissipated._

_Saving the optimism and stowing it away in the core of her heart, femininity settled the weight hesitantly against the tree she had crouched against without taking those mesmerizing eyes from the scene that edged towards the perimeter. Lenora had already outrun them successfully up to this point. Brannigan took it as a stroke of luck that she'd made it this far without a scratch (or a bite) on her. Her intricate memory traced back to the very moment when she had been caught stealing from the previous group - how she had managed to escape with only a bloody lip and a few bruises on account of the herd showing itself at just the right time. It then shifted gears to the hour or so she had sprinted, stealthily utilizing her very taboo, particular training and weaved expertly over the rocky terrain like some graceful, noiseless creature._

_Lenora recalled the hot Georgia sun glowing beautifully atop the trees, making the blue-blooded Irish sweat her tail off - the calming rustling of the very oak tree she had hidden herself behind to prepare for the separation betwixt herself and her supplies so she could pick up speed - even the boat-tailed grackle that called out, guiding a few of them towards the lovely song it sang. Hell, Brannigan even remembered - in great detail - the chase that ensued the second a straggler had taken note of her location and the attention killing it brought to her._

_But for the life of her, Brannigan could not recall the tumble she had taken. The fogged shards of memories regarding each stone and ridge her body had struck or how many times her frame flipped in the air. All she remembered now was pain and the knowledge of a more-than-probable demise._

_A soft breeze rustled the healthy leaves, which loomed with utmost tranquility above the trampled forest floor. It was painful. Her spine ached. Her clothes felt ripped to shreds. Certain parts of her body stung and after the hours of sprinting and the few seconds of falling she had done… she couldn't bring herself to move. Weakness had consumed her. Luckily, femininity had escaped the small herd. But for how long? What if another lone member of the undead stumbled upon the girl? Lenora would not have the strength to put up a good defense. No… the Irishwoman would die… slowly… painfully._

_"**Lenora**." God no. Not her. Of all people, the last thing Nora could take was a ghostly ridicule. "**Lazy girl. How many times have I told you to take off your disgusting makeup before you go to bed? Those sheets are the finest Egyptian silk. I'd prefer you not ruin them with your whore-paint.**" She heard the mind-conjured vision of her mother tsk knowingly at her before Lenora could have sworn the biologically-bound bitch stooped lower to study her. "**Look at you. Such a pathetic little amateur.**"_

_"Fuck… off… mother..." The voice was barely above a whisper - hardly audible, but still there._

_Sapphire hues remained dazed as the young, raven-haired woman felt a small slap against her cheek from the ghost she was imagining. "**Ladies do not speak with such a tongue, Lenora. You'll do well to remember it, lest you get a harder slap.**" A deafening pause ensued. Lenora was too weak to respond. The lone Brannigan attempted to breathe. Coughing ensued. One could almost hear the girl's socialite of a mother make a disgusted noise. "**I blame your father for your insolence. Since you began following and believing in the ramblings of the wretched man, you became nothing more than a vile little thorn in my side. What upstanding man would ever want to marry a little slut like you after they see what he did to you? After they see the scars he gave you?**"_

_Femininity's eyes slowly - painfully opened. Bright blue orbs settled upon the mirage of her blood, hating the very sight of her. "**You followed his insanity and look where it got you. No husband, no children, a horrid reputation in our circle - no life and no future in high society.**" Weakly watching as Sorcha Brannigan reached out to belligerently tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, the fruit of the womb solely wished she beheld the strength to ball a fist and shoot it directly into the woman's ignorant, turned-up nose. "**Military child. War hero. Preparing for… ugh.**" Sorcha scoffed. Lenora wished she had the strength to glare at her. "**It's no wonder my only child - my little ballerina - is such a disgusting waste of a disappointment to me. Look at yourself, Lenora. What are you now, if not unhappily unmarried with your womb rotting from lack of use, parading yourself about like some gothic street-whore?**"_

_Lenora Brannigan considered the words for a moment, even while toeing the fine line betwixt fiction and reality. Even though the young woman knew damn well that death would soon consume her and her terrifying mother was to be the last thing she saw, the Irishwoman couldn't stop the consideration._

_"Alive…" Nora offered the answer a bit louder this time - almost positive that the words must have traveled into reality with the last bit of fighting strength she'd put into them. "Alive…"_

_It was then that pain riddled her lithe frame. It coursed like a cancer through each muscle, making the Irishwoman whimper in despair. Strong arms encircled her, hoisting up the weight like it was nothing. But it was everything to the girl whose body felt aflame with agony. No matter what was to come of her - whether ashes or rebirth - there was at least one lone survivor in this world who took pity upon her soul enough to encircle her in a final few moments of possible salvation. This figure - this gesture - this artist whose arms acted as a makeshift ambulance… they had restored what faith in humanity she had lost long ago. What a void to fill. It overflowed with gratitude._

_Was this an angel? A human? A group of the undead preparing for feast? No matter - Lenora was numb to everything except the pain that coursed through her body like rhythmic wildfire, bulldozing into her frame with each step taken. False hope? Perhaps - but she chose to believe it with such an irreversible conviction. This was her hope, whether false or no. For whatever reason, this soul had attempted sorely to rip her from death by sheer dumb luck. They took pity upon her wretched, condemned spirit. This was more than pain and swirling images of blurred forestry - sounds of sticks and leaves crashing and creaking beneath heavy-weighted boots. These were steady, conscious hands, ferrying her towards her second chance - or the afterlife itself._

_"An… gels…" She murmured before blackness consumed her sights completely._

* * *

Things were moving too slowly for Daryl. It felt like days had passed (instead of the toiling hours) since the small group was sent out to scout the city for supplies. Impatience was growing more potent in his veins, which wasn't saying much. Hunting for supper seemed far more appealing than withering away. It was something that would occupy his mind, which could keep his frustration from mounting to incredible and unimaginable heights. He had only returned after a while to find no group returning with irritating, smiling faces. Much to his chagrin, he would be forced to send himself elsewhere to find more hour-consuming activities.

A woman had been discovered in the woods when he had gone to hunt. Bleeding out and barely clinging onto consciousness. Shane Walsh had taken her off of capable hands and Daryl had abandoned the group yet again to track a buck he'd seen earlier with little interest to stick around and see if she would pull through. Many seemed surprised that the girl had been taken care of so well before being brought to them. Daryl brushed off the whole scenario, before returning to the woods to bide time until his brother returned.

Meanwhile, memories swam like blurred photographs through the survivor's mind - fuzzy and incoherent. Nora Brannigan's eyes shifted slightly beneath corseted lids. Her breath sped slightly from the pain in her ribs from the spill down the ridge. All she remembered was the severe pain spreading like the very flames of the River Styx in her veins when she was hoisted over a stranger's shoulder and ferried from where she was sure her end would come. Her hope had been renewed. Whatever debt she owed would be repaid in kind to whomever delivered her from such a terrible fate.

"Hey... hey, lady." Came a gravely, crisp, country voice. The twang edged her eyelids open and her bright blue hues darted in all directions before landing on a rather handsome young man with dark curly hair and brown eyes. Her memorizing mind drank in the scene before her head began to smart from the bright lights and the piercing, masculine tone. "There yah are. How yah feelin'?"

She closed her eyes again as the reminder set in. Her lips were parched and her head pounded. Her body felt like it was set ablaze from the agony. "Where'm I?" Even with such few words, the Irish lilt clung strong in her voice. The fellow seemed caught off guard by it. His eyes blinked a few times before the realization finally sunk in.

A charmingly crooked smile played upon his lips. Too charming, Lenora's mind mused absently. Her eyes trailed to the hat he toyed with in his hands. PD. Police Department. "You were beat up pretty bad. Found yah just on the outskirts of the camp."

Brannigan shifted her gaze to his once more as she felt his worried stare. "Didn't get bit." She added for emphasis.

"Pretty sure you'd be hittin' fever 'bout now if that were true." Shane Walsh quipped, his smile growing as he looked upon her with a silly sort of mischief. "Goodlookin' woman out there by 'erself. Where's your group?"

"Don' 'ave one." Much to Shane's shock, her face remained blank - completely emotionless. After such an ordeal, he was expecting at least a little gratitude. However, none passed through those full lips of hers. She changed the subject before he had the ability to comment on it. "Ye foun' me?" Her tone was like dry gravel. As though she had not spoken in more than a few hours - as though she hadn't spoken in weeks. But her words were strong. She needed to be sure.

He seemed to pause for a long moment before he nodded at her passive inquiry. "Well. Can't be walkin' 'round here callin' yah a foreigner, can we?" He joked. Nora would have laughed if she wasn't in so much pain... and if it was funny. The policeman's hues darted to the hat that flopped around in his grasp. He seemed nervous. He had something to do. Lenora's eyes almost narrowed to slits. He was up to something. "What's your name, darlin'?"

"Well, it ain't darlin'." Her words were almost robotic. That same, blank, almost disinterested expression still etched firmly upon her face. A hand placed over that flat stomach, which was bandaged well. She did not show any sign of pain, though she should have. Instead, it almost seemed like she was assessing damage without acknowledging the extent. There seemed to only be a flicker of pain that swept across her eyes. "Lenora Brannigan." The surname made a flicker of curious emotion appear within her orbs. It almost looked like sadness. She finalized with the desired nickname, "Nora".

Shane arose just then, dusting his pants off before offering her his hand to introduce himself properly. "Well, th'name's Shane Walsh, Nora. Welcome to the crew." Lenora studied it, but never raised her own hand to shake. Instead, her eyes canted back up to the man's to lock firmly. She studied him as though he were some object of an experiment. Her eyes were calculating. They unnerved him with their uncanny brightness. Walsh's own thick, calloused digits careened back to his side in defeat. He sighed out. He turned slightly before adding, "get yourself some more rest. Dinner'll be ready in a few hours." That being said, the male slapped the soft side of the baseball cap against his hand, then roved that exact same set of digits through his hair before he fitted the hat back on his skull and continued through the camper to the exit. He left Lenora to her twisted, mental devices.

Irish sank her head into the pillows for a stint. Her bed was stationed in the back-end of an RV. A lithe set of fingers sprawled over her abdomen and she assessed her damage further. Those piercing, cerulean hues finally dropped to memorize and calculate her own body. A few fractured ribs, which would take more than a few weeks to heal, a sprained leg, a bruised collarbone and quite a few blacks, blues and purples to certify her body as an earthen punching bag. She doubted her face looked any better. She recalled striking her head once and reached up to confirm that a bandage had been wrapped around it. Pollex swept under her eyelids, finding that mascara and eyeliner had stained her face in the wake of her tears. Had she been crying? Nora grimaced in disgust from the possibility of her own emotions taking a depressing turn in the midst of near death. She had not been trained to cry. She had been trained to survive.

Thoughts eventually trailed to the one she had awoken to - Shane Walsh. Odd man. Far too suave and cool in such a heatwave. Many things about him were off-putting to the Irishwoman's analytical theories. She had pegged his personality down to a science by the time he had set foot outside the RV. Throughout the entire conversation, he had played with his hat. He was hiding things that he was not entirely comfortable about, which meant he was guilty of something. _Sneaky_, Lenora mused before her mental hypothesis continued. He had stabbed a hand directly in front of her, then seemed put off by her unwillingness to be formal. He was trying too hard to appear casual and friendly, while still remaining authoritative. This also meant that - perhaps at one point - a part of him may have been civilized and sane, but with what tragedy befell him, he was no longer. Treacherous. He had lead her on with inquiries that almost made her feel as if she were being interviewed. Definitely a cop - probably the leader of the group, her thoughts chimed yet again. _Cop with a hidden agenda_, that last trickle of mental theory left Lenora's gaze narrowed almost animalistically upon the entrance to the RV. His compliments and shy smiles proved simple flirtatious behavior. _Ladies man - too charming - uses coquetry and a veil of stupidity to get information he wants or needs._ _Plays a good cop. **Isn't** a good cop._

She loathed hidden agendas.

Perhaps she could sway this group to her advantage until she healed well enough to take what she needed and leave them be. After all, Shane may have been a wary character, but Lenora Brannigan was ten times worse. This group - odd, but helpful and kind - did not deserve such a burden of a strong, cruel personality. The Irishwoman was no saint. On the contrary, those who met her feared her very presence. She was cold, isolate, stoic… a soldier - an animal. Hardly fitted to hang around social types.

There was a reason Nora did not have a group. She was a survivalist, not a socialite. She did not deserve a family, nor did a family deserve the amount of destruction she could possibly bring. No. She was something else entirely - something these people would never understand, nor accept. It was best if she kept them all at arms' length until she was proper enough to go out on her own once more.

* * *

Some time had passed and when the youngest Dixon had returned to camp, disgruntled already about the deer he had lost, but slightly relieved with the news of the scouting group's return. Heavy-weighted boots stormed through the camp, a loud, gruff shout for his brother to come help him with cleaning what little food he had managed to catch echoed throughout the group and almost resonated off the walls of the quarry itself.

The only response he got was the frightful expressions of the other survivors. At first he shrugged them off, by now having been used to the odd way people looked at him, but something in his gut told him this time was different. Sure enough, a newcomer named Rick Grimes had approached the scene and bulldozed news into Dixon's ear of his older brother's terrible luck and piss-poor attitude.

Upon first glance, Daryl Dixon was not a name (nor a personality) the lone Brannigan child held interest in getting to know. His mannerisms were rash, outlandish and sporadic, from what she had overheard while residing in the RV as Rick and Shane had been forced to restrain him. A very dangerous combination in the midst of such a New World Order.

After much shouting and many flying squirrels later, Daryl was preparing himself to go into Atlanta to rescue his brother for the following morning. He passed by the survivors gathered around the usual kumbaya campfire, his eyes wandering briefly over each of their faces as he glowered. He noticed the young woman who had been rescued amongst the lot but did nothing to acknowledge her existence as he moved on. Good. Lenora had mutely prayed that he would not dare set foot around the campfire whilst the group was in a moment of sickening bliss. The last thing she needed was to get more nauseous by this beast's idiotic, short-tempered behavior. He was a loose cannon. She dealt very poorly with loose cannons.


	2. PART I - Chapter Two

**PART I**

_CHAPTER TWO_

There was no telling just how many of the undead could have heard the incessant blaring of the horn as he paced in the back of the moving truck like some caged animal that very morning. Rick had finally heeded his call and the small group of men fled the cozy camp to rescue the Dixon's even more wayward brother. Lenora could not even fathom the idea of someone actually being worse than the redneck before her.

However, while the large vehicle ferried the four-man crew away, a feeling had settled in her gut. Her thesis was not entirely true. She was the worst out of all of them. Probably even worse than the _**beast**_ who had just left in search of his kin. He had something to lose. She didn't. That made her dangerous. But it was not Nora's place to say anything and as such, she would keep to her silence, eat apart from the group and try to avoid as many inquiries as possible. Over the past few hours, she had felt much less foggy-minded and was planning on heading out on her own by the end of the week.

Now, Lenora had watched the sun rise, mutely observing the streams of piercing hot light that accentuated the lovely stones that constructed the walls of the quarry. They glimmered so lusciously - so mesmerizingly. The lone Brannigan seemed too enthralled to notice the elderly man named Dale as he came to her. The sharply-sensed survivalist did not even regard his approach, even when he had unsurprisingly stood by her side and offered her a metal cup of instant coffee. Hypnotic, oceanic hues darted almost suspiciously to the cup before a hand arose to take it. Dale (who Lenora instantly pegged no more than eight hours ago as the conscience of the group - a good man, albeit completely naive and far too hopeful for his own good) seemed pleased with her acceptance of his gesture and sipped on his own cup.

"I wasn't sure how you liked it." Dale excused as Brannigan took her first sip. Her lips almost seemed to frown, but it lasted a few seconds before her expression converted back to its usual blankness. "There's sugar over there if you'd like some." Lenora glanced over to where he gestured, but made no motion to take up the offer. As far as she was concerned (with what little effort she was able to put into the daily chores in her condition) the less she took from this group, the better. Dale was shocked to find the tough exterior of the female as she merely remained with her eyes glued upon the scenery, sipping slowly upon the steaming hot, comforting brew. He followed her gaze, truly enthralled by the sight she was beholding. "I can see why you're quiet." He murmured, his tone a little softer now. "It's beautiful."

Brannigan continued to sip absently upon the coffee while her other arm cradled her aching ribs. Still, Dale's natural, welcoming soul seemed to aid the woman in finding a certain peace as she stared into the comforting abyss of light and promise. It almost seemed like a eutopia in this terrible world - an oasis of assurance that soon… everything would be just fine.

_False advertisement_, Lenora mused to herself bitterly as she stole another sip of coffee.

"_Yeah, let's go!_" Carl. Young boy. Naive. Far too eager to grow up. His laughter chimed through the crisp morning air, which was warming swiftly with the rising sun. Shane's chuckle joined it, causing Irish's eyes to careen from the quarry and unto the joyous scene unfolding. She practically shoved the cup into Dale's hands before she made her way from the scenery to march towards the two young men.

"Officer Walsh." The announcement threw the male off slightly and he gave her an odd look. He hadn't been addressed as such in a long time. Or he had realized that he had never informed her that he was a cop.

"Now, call me Shane. Don't think officer much applies anymore." He corrected with a grin. His eyes canted to Carl. "You run 'long ahead. I'll catch up." He promised. The boy merely nodded and rushed off. Andrea and the rest of the domesticated group were off doing laundry by the water. Lenora was hardly eager to join them. "Somethin' on your mind?"

Brannigan waited for the child to be out of earshot before her hands joined before her and she forced her shoulders straight and at attention. "Simple act o'good fait'." She announced, her form completely rigid, almost as though she were prepared for an attack. "Not one fer goin' long wit'out me effects." Shane gave her a long, wary look. As though he did not quite trust the emotionless nature in which she portrayed herself.

"You want yer weapons back." He concluded almost dumbly. Lenora halted for a stint, then nodded firmly. Shane's gaze shifted to the ground for a moment, considering the pros and cons.

"I'm of no threat t'yer group, sir." Lenora said, placing a hand upon her ribs. Walsh eyed her reaction to her own pain curiously. She shifted the weight from her good leg to her bad to distract herself from wincing. She was using one pain to lessen another. Smart. Shane's hands wove through his hair, rubbing his scalp for what seemed like the billionth time. He had a habit of doing such when he was thinking things that should not have been said aloud. Lenora hoped, for his sake, that he kept such words to himself.

"Well. Don't much see the issue there. Stashed your weapons with the rest of 'em. They should be with Dale." He said. Lenora nodded curtly, then strode with the grace of the most elegant creature back to the elderly male's side, taking her coffee back up from his grasp and proceeding to stare straight ahead.

A small smirk broke onto Shane's features, accompanied by a shake of his head at the woman's weird nature before he continued to meet Carl at the water to catch frogs.

* * *

Nora had turned in early, planning on getting some much-needed shut-eye before she faced another day of pestering and invasive questions. All to no avail, it seemed. Screams of terror and gutteral moans of cannibalistic hunger made her wake with a start and scramble for her weapons that Dale had graciously provided for her.

She readied her katana, sais and bow and arrow before she limped into the battlefield. She began with the bow, doing her best to conserve her strength while taking down a substantial amount. She regrettably ran out of arrows and had to switch to close combat. Sweat and blood dripped from her body as she chopped and stabbed her way through the crowds of the undead, careful not to get a bad brush with any of them. It was a bit more difficult to wave off the tiredness of her muscles and the freshness of her wounds. She could feel her ribs shooting streams of pain through her body as she practised her well-versed art. Her sprained leg stung with every limp and the torment almost brought tears to her eyes. Nora's determination was higher than her agony. She used the sensations to push herself forth and repay this group in kind the only way she knew how: _killing_ for them.

Rick's group had arrived in the nick of time. Daryl's crossbow was strapped along his back, being rendered completely useless as he was only down to one bolt. In his hands he firmly gripped the shotgun that he had been given from Rick and immediately began mowing down what viral corpses crossed his path. He emptied the shotgun shells into their heads, watching as their brain matter splattered all over, painting the camp in _war_. He swiftly moved along, walking down the trail of tents stationed down the hill and began clearing out all infected in his path. Over in this direction were the tents that Carol and Ed stayed in, and across from them were the tents that the hispanics stayed in.

He heard Ed's screams as a walker chowed down on his fat ass like it was an all-you-can-eat buffet. Carol had taken Sophia in her arms, horrified and paralyzed with fear. Daryl cocked his shotgun and blew out its brains. "C'MON LADY! MOVE YOUR ASS!" Daryl roared at Carol, seeming to break her from her inability to move as she rushed past him with her daughter. He continued forward, making his way over to the Hispanic's tent that was beginning to get overrun with walkers.

One of the children had emerged from the mass and simply stood and stared. Terror was full in his eyes as his gaze locked onto Daryl's. The child had begun stepping forth to run to him. In a split-second, it all changed. The child was grabbed by their ankle and they toppled to the ground with one of the infected.

Daryl raised his gun to get a shot.

**_Click_**.

He was on empty and by now it was too late. The tiny child squealed like a sheep being slaughtered as the walker took a giant chunk out of his leg. "Sonuva bitch!" Daryl shouted as he rushed over to the walker and tried to wrestle it off of the child.

A bloodcurdling screech caught Nora's eardrums and her head whipped to the sound of the child as his leg was viciously torn apart by the undead. Irish sprang into action with as much gracefulness as she could muster, cutting a bloody path directly to the scene.

She snuck skillfully behind the walker and with one swanlike wave of her blade, the corpse's head was lopped right off. Though Daryl was taken by surprise from Nora's sudden appearance it did not distracted him from continuing with his efforts to help the small child. The head tumbled to the ground with a hard _**thump!**_ and Brannigan proceeded to jam the blade into the brainstem for good measure before she moved to assist Daryl in removing the immobile corpse from the child.

He pressed his lips together as they pulled downward into a scowl. The kid was wailing loudly, his face soaked in tears as he laid there like a wounded animal. Daryl was never one to watch things suffer. Many would say they saw the shadow of Merle behind him. One quick look at him and they all assumed he was no different, but they were wrong.

His eyes shifted to rest upon the petite woman at his side briefly, his inner struggle just barely visible through his expression, but he knew she could see it. Though Nora's heart clenched in her chest and stilled a beat in that moment, she couldn't help but understand his reasons behind his actions. The child would turn, only causing more suffering for his parents when they saw him become a monster. He quickly looked away from her to the young boy. He removed his crossbow from his back and placed his last remaining bolt into the flight groove before pulling back on the string. Once his crossbow was locked and loaded the Redneck lifted it and aimed at the child's head. Daryl pulled the trigger, sending the bolt clean through the kid's forehead and putting him out of his misery.

Without even a moment's hesitation he quickly moved over to the corpse and retrieved his last remaining bolt. He gripped the arrow with one hand and ripped it out before wiping it off on his pant leg, his eyes stealing a glance to Nora. The young Brannigan said nothing; simply staring. Daryl stored the bolt away and moved past her.

Something in her heart made her gut wrench when their eyes had met. In those few moments, Brannigan felt… well… she _**felt**_. There was a certain humanity behind his eyes that bulldozed down to her very core - something that reminded her of what once was - what never would be again. She watched his spine retreat from her presence, taking a moment to breathe deep, despite the pain in her ribs. She knew the reasons behind taking the child's life - to end his suffering. To give him something better than this terrifying world. It was no place for a baby. Lenora had expected the shot. She had _not_ expected him to _feel anything_ about it.

Lenora turned away from him as he had done to her, proceeding to finish the war waging around them. At this point, there were more important things to be concerned of.


End file.
